#1
fused litmag
cover art by isabel garcia
everyone dies in july by annika gilbert photo by isabel garcia i: childhood you wanted to put him under flowers so he could bloom like you always knew he could, and his sadness could wash away with the dirt and rain but when the time came there was nothing to bury, not a single bone. ii: brother you can’t forget the sound your nails made as they clawed against the wall; your sobs so loud, that screeching louder. she held you tight around the waist, held you back as his chest stopped, because you would have run to his side brought your fists down to his ribs pounding and crying until he woke up
even when you knew he would not. but you didn’t, you never would have been so violent, because he was delicate and small even when his teeth ripped holes in your skin and red trickled down your elbows, because he was beautiful, always beautiful even when he caused you to bleed. iii: guardian the spaces he once occupied are not easily defined from the ones you fill now alone in the dark, alone each morning. you used to stay up late for him, listened to that pathetic shout for days holding him, not tight, just right, baby steps to his grave. you were his favorite, that’s what they all said but he left when you weren’t home and time doesn’t pass slowly now, just endlessly.
past loss / growth by isabel garcia top photos by annika gilbert, bottom photo by isabel garcia i look out my window tonight (other nights, too) and see tessellations, or variations of your face, one for each leaf on the rosebushes they cut out of the yard. your nose is bigger, rounder in the orange ones and your lips are thinner in transparency i watch the color of your curls change with the seasons in summer, you grow taller and your lips turn different colors each time i shut my eyes. i have always been afraid that the rosebushes would stay in the yard i have always been afraid that the rosebushes would grow forever. in another chapter, the rosebushes are planted somewhere new in another chapter, the rosebushes never left.
august by thalia halloran top by annika gilbert, bottom photo by isabel garcia I consider August in the past tense Even as I live it, Even as I walk barefoot on still-warm pavement While July crumbles away into night. Beneath the sweating sunshine There was barely room to breathe And still we stood, Or stand, Or will— I'm not sure when— But we were one. We watched the trees begin to green in March And now we watched them thrive, Their leaf-veins swelling full Until they burst to die. Autumn was nearing,
But the air still smelled of sangria And sanguinity, The silly stupid stupor of confusing like and love. Still, there were signs that life was passing by When wildflowers began to wilt And bleach from chlorine sun And raindrops fattened and turned blue With cold and shivers. Progress happened fast when unobserved And took us by surprise, But looking back from that September first it seemed We'd been reborn with nothing Other than a few more freckles And a little less time And a new appreciation for the insects.
i saw through by anonymous photos by paul dzubay seeking the peace but not piecing together the thoughts i thought i knew: that i was ever remotely important to you but i saw through your touch grew cold in time with winter your tone grew distant and shorter and bitter i still believe that once i knew the you that i loved as the flowers grew but i saw through and in time that beautiful flower i knew could no longer see the love she withdrew from mine, gentle in its own would last no more when the spring came new and i saw through.
an excerpt from my addiction with the flowers by anonymous photo by isabel garcia Magic is real. I've seen it. It sparkled like the stars and lilted like the ocean. It grew in the flowers, and matched the color of her eyes. I'd been told that magic was for children, and that it only existed in fairytales. Yet, if that's true, Alice Duval was merely a fairytale: a marvelous, brilliant fairytale. Mid May I would visit my grandmother in Pennsylvania, where she owned a quiet, little estate in the town of Spring Ridge, population 1,003. My grandmother was always a very caring woman, and sometimes, it felt like she served as a mother figure to me even more than my actual mother did. That is, whenever she was home. She had no husband, being a widow, and kept busy during the day by hounding me to keep the house pristine while she went out. She would spend a lot of time at the doctor's office. One day, she brought me along because I was still too young to stay at home by myself. I heard the doctor talk about my mother having cancer, but that it was a very small tumor, and it would be removed without any problems. She got very sad when he talked about it. When she was home, she taught me French, and made sure I knew how to 'act like a lady.' Mother liked to think herself not as mean, but 'by the book.' My mother did love me. Very much I might add, and when I was upset, she’d pull out her record player, and play Clair de Lune. We would ballroom dance around the living room for hours upon hours until my sadness had disintegrated. In May of 1952, my mother sent me to my Nana’s once again, for the 5th time. I was 9 years old. The weather was cooler than the previous May’s, the first cool air hitting my face once I stepped out of the car.